


Ghosts (they Haunt)

by namedanonymous



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namedanonymous/pseuds/namedanonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some days when Alexander cannot tell the real from the imaginary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts (they Haunt)

          It always takes him to the same place ** _;_** the press of a quill in hand and the **STEADY** rasp of the nib against parchment lulling the mind off to eerie quiet where nothing may distract him and the world falls **QUIET** to the simplicity of ink and words. The ghosts fall _silent_ in the recesses of his pen as desperation runs from the ridges of poised fingers into the sharp lines of careful prose stamped in neat lines that don’t _quite_ reflect the recesses of his psyche properly **_(_** they don’t **_know_** about the ache his fingers if he does not let free the sentences locked inside, the calamity of voices as they reach a pinnacle of volume until he is not sure that they are truly all his _own_   ** _)._  **He writes and the world melts away to the one locked inside. These _tendencies_ annoy many to no end ** _;_** when Alexander retreats to _dance_ with his quill outside voices are too often sealed from the chamber of his focus, and _few_  are granted access inside.

          John Laurens is **ONE**.

          How **EASY** it is for the razor edge of _desperation_ to soften at a single touch, familiar fingers tracing the fragile lines of a wrist and stilling the ink running volatile through his veins ** _(_** they are there, the words, always _there_ begging to be released from their cage and spilt across pale parchment—– _and there is not enough **TIME** to release them all_   ** _)_**. Desolation still _trembles_ under fragile skin, but his quill falls silent at the urging of tender affections, fingers limp as they allow the quill to slip from frozen grasp and the words clamor for him to snatch it up once more—–          “ _Alexander._  “          The voice with its _poignant_ inflections and worried undertow washes over all the others, drawing his gaze upwards, a dying candle accenting the _madness_  still buried between violent flecks **_(_** madness that fades to _blankness_ , ink-stained fingers entwining almost uncertainly around each other **_)_**. _Yes **?**_  He wants to say, but sound dries up in his throat, swallowed in the wake of an erratic beat. He knows the meaning behind the single utterance of a name, anyways.

_ba-boom. ba-boom. ba-boom._

          His heart sounds too **LOUD** in his ears, breath _unsteady_ as it hisses from quivering lips. his is balance upon a knife’s edge, and _still,_  eyes stare upwards at his ** _dearest_** friend until—–.

          He is drawn like a moth to flame to the glow hidden in the swirls of john’s irises, a  **MARIONETTE** tugged jerkily along with frayed strings from its chair. cold fingers settle along the pulse thundering along the curve of a neck, white clouds escaping in a whisper over his tongue —–a **_[name](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fx&t=N2NhMjg4ZmY3MmFkMDAxM2U5ZmIyZmViOGZiZjVmYjU3OGEwMzc0OSwzTzBlbktKaA%3D%3D)_** , quietly exhaled before Alexander all but **FALLS** into the other. **_(_**  And it is like falling into the **warmth** of a bath after knowing nothing but rivers cut in winter  ** _)_**. Eyes drift closed with fingers tracing against the fabric of his coat, and it is _warm_ , so _**WARM**._  nestled between the cove of arms linked fast about slim frame it is **SAFE** , the ink of words careening against the confines of his skull fading to more white noise —–the sensation of a heart, alive and strong and **REASSURING** filling him and chasing the glacier from his veins **_(_** finally turning the corners of lips into a faint smile, so RARE in these days like a flower in the deepest snows  ** _)_**. Captured **_here_** with head tucked beneath john’s chin is a limbo that feel less like reality and more like a dream **_(_** like _pearly_ gates and _golden_ clouds **_);_** Alexander would **never** leave if the world would let him.

          ** _(_**  The world would never let him **_STAY )_**.

          Lids slip open once more to **INK**  from an overturned well seeping through his sleeve with slow chilliness, writing over the warm echoes of fingers painted against his skin as darkness presses with anything but the consoling **comfort** of a loving embrace. **_(_**  His quill is on the floor and his fingers lined with **_ICE )_**.

          Eyes _fracture_ open and he remembers the war ended in **Y** **orktown** and his **_WORLD_** months later with a letter clutched between Eliza’s fingers **_(_** news delivered on a gentle tongue that did ~~LITTLE~~ to soften the pain of the blow **_)_**.

          He opens his eyes to a world full of **GHOSTS** that will not leave and continue to haunt in their nostalgic ways **_(_** in the blue eyes of strangers, in the notes of a lullaby dropped from the cold lips of a woman without a home, and in the white petals of flower sold by the street stand two blocks away **_)_**.

          Shadowy phantoms line his bones worse than any **WINTER** , chilling the beat of his heart and driving ice through blue pricked veins, allowing the voices to clamor for attention in his head once more ** _(_** not **one**  is the one he wishes the most to hear **_)_**. Absence resonates so **PROFOUNDLY** like the vacancy of heat **_(_** of _love_ ** _)_** because it cannot be felt until it’s too  **LATE** and empty eyes are left to stare at a door that will never open again **_(_**  until lips cannot utter _three words_ because corpses do not HEAR **_)_**. It **HURTS** because nothing can truly replace what has been lost **_(_**  Eliza’s love helps in its own soothing way, a warm balm that goes cold too quickly and tainted with his guilt **_)_** and sometimes even the age-old tactic of words upon words upon **WORDS** only leaves him feeling more empty. He should not **_shame_** his grief and try to cage it behind the too-weak prison bars of his heart, for emotions are not so easily grappled with, demanding to be felt in the end, one way or another. But he **_DOES:_** hands shaking as they angrily dash tears from their tracks and reach from a new piece of parchment.

          Alexander has always been **_HAUNTED_** —–and now, another has joined their ranks.

**Author's Note:**

> Another quick piece from my Alexander blog!


End file.
